Rámar en Lómë
by FireFly07
Summary: Turgon-Idril angsty conversation on the Tower. After the Nirnaeth, the Noldor retreat to Gondolin—and Turgon has nothing left but his daughter, his city, and a broken pride that is slowly repairing itself.


**Rámar-en-Lómë**

That means, "Wings of the Night" in Quenya (at least I hope it _does_ mean that.) Random title that flashed into my head.

Warning: the conversation starts going nowhere.

**ΩΩΩΩΩ**

_I lost my mother when we followed the raving madman, my wife when we crossed the infernal Helcaraxë. I lost my brother in our first battle and my sister when the dratted Dark Elf came into my life. I lost my father in a courageously foolish faceoff against Morgoth. And now, I've lost my other, beloved brother in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, slain by one of those dreaded Valaraukar. Anairë, amilinya… Elenwë… Arakáno… Irissë… Nolofinwë, atarinya… Findekáno…_

The lone figure gazed out at his city, flowing dark hair blending in with the night. He walked on the platform at the top of his tower, hands moving smoothly along the exquisitely designed stone rims. Every so often he stopped abruptly, hand clenching the stone, fingers trembling. He stayed silent, not even a faint tapping from his footsteps. He looked up at the night sky, weary gray eyes filled with longing. They had long since abandoned the strong glow that they had sparkled with, so many years ago. Small stars twinkled innocently above him, contentedly unaware of the all the pain and sorrow flooding below them. Then they were veiled by the dark clouds.

"They don't wish to be watched," a voice murmured behind him. He didn't reply. He wasn't even surprised. Idril walked up to him, left hand resting on his right shoulder. There was silence for a while, only the sound of cloaks flapping around their ankles. "They want you to rest. Get some sleep, Ata. You've had a long day. Your people need you— all the Noldor in Beleriand. You're the High King now." He turned to look at her, and she met his gaze. He spoke.

"Itarillë." There was a hint of a plead in his voice. "Please…don't remind me."

She realized that her father was only High King because of Fingon's death. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she felt her cheeks grow uncomfortably hot. She shuffled around, the wind blowing her golden hair into her face. "Y-You've still got me," she stammered, in an effort to fix the conversation. As she waited for an answer, a cold wind seeped through her thick cloak. She shivered. But Turgon didn't reply. She looked over at him with a worried expression on her face.

He was facing the floor now, arms stretched out in front of him, grasping the crenellated rims once more; breathing fast. Idril came closer, and he whispered, voice close to breaking point, "You have no idea how close I was to losing you too." Idril shuddered again. She'd heard about the Revolt of the Noldor (including the Crossing of the Helcaraxë) time and time again, and there were some nights, when she was young, when she couldn't even bear to fall asleep with the story still ringing in her ears. "It's over now," she murmured in an attempt to comfort him, feeling something hot sting her eyes. "Ata, it's _over…_Get some sleep, you'll feel better in the morning…"

"_Over? _Feel better in the morning?" There was a touch of bitter, broken laughter. "You think so? It won't make a difference, hinya—don't you see? I'll _feel better _when I have to, and now—now's the only time I have…the only time I have to mourn—because Morgoth _will_ strike, and he will strike hard. We're the _last _Noldorin realm, and you know what that means. He's _going mad_, Itarillë, going mad to destroy us. More battle. More preparations and all those, and no… no more time—just give me _time_—you do realize I've just lost everything I've ever cared about except you and this—this _"Ondolindë?" _And…and—" He broke off, running his hand through his hair in a refreshing gesture, and the moonlight revealed something wet rolling down the side of his face.

"I _do _understand," Idril said, voice turning sharper than she'd meant because of the panic that crept into it. "I do, Ata. But if—if you want me to leave now—"

"No, don't leave." He turned to her and forced a smile. "Don't you realize? Of all the people I care about, it's only you that's left. There's no one else I would rather have with me tonight." Idril smiled back at him, and allowed his arm around her neck, gripping her shoulder. "What will you do now?" she whispered.

"Live," he replied simply. "It's all that's left to do. We can't ride out to Angband; we can't even ride out of the city. We can't go back to Aman—who knows what's happened to those I sent out to Círdan's ports to sail for Valinor and ask mercy? Ossë, I'm afraid." He sighed. "We may have the friendship of Ulmo—but Ossë…" He shook his head, placing his elbow on the gleaming stone edge so he could rest his head on his hand. With his other one he stroked a lock of Idril's hair from her face. "You don't know how glad I am that you're with me—right here, right now, still breathing. You're so much like…Elenwë." His voice broke. "That Eru-forsaken "_spirit of fire" _is the reason you've never known your mother, Itarillë—his "_priceless" _Silmarilli, they're the reason—" He stopped, and said, "Findekáno and I kept discussing this." He forced a bitter laugh. "He tried to convince me that it was Morgoth's fault—I still can't accept that."

"You've already accepted it," Idril said. "I know you have. You wouldn't be here if you haven't. I just… know." Turgon watched her curiously. Then he let out a breath he had never noticed he'd held, and said, "Well, maybe I have. But it doesn't matter anymore."

"It _does _matter! What are you _talking _about? The fact that you're here, it's—it's—" Idril shook her head desperately, losing what she wanted to say. "Just listen. Whatever you do, Ata, look to the stars. Look at them. Look now. They're out again. That's us— we rise in glory. We get defeated. Then, we show everyone what we can do, what we have the power to do. We're just like that."

"Are you so sure, hinya?" he said softly. "What goes up must come down, sooner or later—and I fear the sooner."

"But before it comes down, there's a final stand," Idril insisted. "There's the glory. And the power—the power to _fight _in that stand. Power doesn't really mean to _win_. Power is the ability to _do something._"

"I never thought I would get lectured by my daughter concerning _power_," Turgon said with the faintest hint of a smile.

"Ata, you're missing my point," she said crossly.

"I'm getting your point, Itarillë."

Idril said nothing, continuing to watch the Gondolindrim walking about in the streets, making the least noise as possible in the darkness of the night. The lights they used were minimized for fear of being discovered, even if they were in the valley of Tumladen in the Echoriath. The clouds had passed already and the stars were glittering ever so brightly. The full moon cast a dazzling light on the innermost parts of the city, offering extra brightness that the enemy could never see. Presently Turgon spoke. "It's high time you went back in, princess." There was a gleam of something in his eyes. Idril couldn't tell what.

"You're sure…?" she began.

"I'll be fine," he assured her. Idril looked unwilling to leave the cool, airy tower-top yet, but she really was getting sleepy. She took one last look at her father's silhouette and went down the fair stone steps back into the main building.

"If the Valar will Gondolin to fall," Turgon murmured, "then they might at least spare my daughter and call her back to Valinor and the fair Tirion…" And he followed Idril down the stairs.

_END_


End file.
